


Just One Mistake

by MeMyselfMoi



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M, Warning: may trigger
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-02-21 01:14:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2449889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeMyselfMoi/pseuds/MeMyselfMoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kuroko Tetsuya is physically abused by his father, and does his best to hide it from those around him. He's done well so far, but eventually...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I tiptoe. 

Always quiet, always cautious. 

Always invisible. 

These are the words I chant in my head as I climb the stairs, hoping desperately to make it to my room. 

I can’t help but wonder if I need to bother; he wasn’t in the living room, nor the kitchen.  
He wasn’t in their bedroom; I had glanced in, half with fear, half with hope, only to see my mother, tucked up in rumpled sheets, as if they could protect her. 

Be a barrier against him… his hands… his feet. 

Anything he could use to inflict pain onto others. 

My wandering thoughts come to a standstill when my left foot sets down on a creaky step. 

My heart races, and I pause, throat closing up. I wait. I hear no sounds, from downstairs or upstairs, and release a shaky breath. 

He must be gone again. 

Drinking, more than likely, with his friends. Or gambling, although that is less likely. He doesn’t gamble much; too afraid of losing. 

That is one thing I can be grateful for. 

I continue my climb, feet moving slowly, almost lethargically, but less quiet now.  
There are three rooms upstairs, my bedroom, the bathroom, and the gym. It’s not so much of a gym, really; just a relatively small room with wood flooring, a treadmill, and weights.  
He could be there, I suppose; lying in wait for me to come home, sitting in the dark against the cold plaster walls, breathing in the metallic tang of blood that has stained the floor and the very air itself.  
Not as if you can’t taste it in any other room, but in other rooms it is less concentrated. More of an idea of what has happened in those rooms… the memories. But not in the gym; in the gym, you don’t need the memories.  
The dark splotches on the floor, the thick, heavy air... those are reminders enough. 

I have reached the landing, the very top step where the sky blue carpet of the stairs cuts off abruptly to change to a dark brown.  
I look to my left; the bathroom.  
Dark.  
I look ahead, to my bedroom, and take a step forward. 

But I can’t. 

I change direction, feet padding quietly to the right.  
To the gym.  
I know all too well I won’t be able to sleep otherwise; not without checking first, just to be sure that he is gone, that he is not in the house. 

Just to be certain, so that I can sleep. 

My feet cross the threshold, and my heart stops when I flick on the lights… but no. It is empty.  
My eyes sweep over it again, carefully, taking in the stains in the wood, the almost black droplets splattered here and there on the white walls. I wonder if they will ever fade... no. 

I am right, I think. 

The stench of blood will never leave this room. 

I turn, relief washing over me, tingling through my system from the tips of my ears to my toes, fading out slowly as I sigh. 

He is gone. Now, I can sleep. Now, I can think ahead, to tomorrow, perhaps even the day after, and the day after. 

A small smile graces my lips; it is easy to smile when I think of my team, working hard towards their goals; and being the only ones in my life to encourage me to work towards mine.  
I shuffle into my room, turning and locking the door behind me. 

Safe. 

I lean forward, rest my head for a moment against the cool wood.  
Fingertips reaching up to trace the small grains in front of my face, feeling the nuances and notches formed from wear. 

I compare myself to this door.  
It looks sturdy, hard, stable. And yet it has these infinitesimally small little scratches, reoccurring again and again the farther my fingertips venture. I’m not sure how they got there; were they formed naturally, over the years? Were they made from force, perhaps? From one-too-many chemistry textbooks being thrown at them in annoyance?  
I take a step back, head lifting in careful study. And yet… one hard kick, from the right person, from someone strong enough, would be enough to break this supposedly sturdy door.  
To snap it in half, jagged pieces of wood creaking and groaning, reaching up like daggers in an attempt to connect with the piece that was broken, pushed beyond its limit, now lying broken on the floor.  
I stare for a moment, envisioning it, this scene playing out in the theatre of my mind, before scoffing.  
I am not this door. 

I am… I am… 

I flounder for a moment, searching for a satisfactory answer. 

Tired. 

God, I am comparing myself to an inanimate object. 

I need sleep. 

I shake my head slightly, shoulders relaxing, picking myself up out of my hole, my grave, knowing that I dig it myself; but still far too stubborn to admit defeat and lie down in it. 

I will fight; for as long as I am able. 

My hand reaches up, towards the wall, searching for the light switch. 

But I freeze, hand stilling, as for the first time since walking in I stop to take in my surroundings. 

I can’t see anything, of course… but I don’t need to.  
I hear it. 

The soft rasping of breath; not my own. 

My hand drops, right before a sharp pain radiates from my rib cage.  
His fist, my mind connects, as I am falling to the floor.  
Right before I hit the ground my body reacts, curling into a ball. It is instinctive, by now. I no longer need to remind myself to do so. 

I stay still as he kicks me, at the base of my spine; pain shoots up it, and my fingers twitch instinctively around their tight hold of my head.  
I don’t know why I always protect my head; it isn’t necessary. He never hits above the shoulders, never below the knees. He knows better by now. 

Another kick. Chest, now, right below my right pec; I am lying on my left side, my jutting elbows protecting that side somewhat.  
A small “oomph” escapes me; stomach. 

He grunts, liking the sound, and kicks me there again. The smell of alcohol drifts down towards me, and my nose crinkles. Stomach. Shoulder. Right thigh. Stomach. Left thigh. Groin. 

I stifle a cry, squeezing my eyes shut. I won’t give him the satisfaction. 

He brings his foot down, hard, on the expansion of muscle right between my ribs and my hip. 

Damn, I think, that’ll bruise. 

He shifts to my back again, kicking wherever he pleases, feet switching between hitting vertebrae and hard muscle. 

 

Eventually, finally, at last… he is done. 

 

I hear his light pants as he shambles lazily to my door, hear the click of the lock being undone. 

My muscles ache.  
My bones ache. 

I am so tired. 

But I lower my arms, turning my head to watch as my father’s figure recedes into the hall, nearly tripping over his own feet, then down the stairs, until finally I can see him no more.  
I wonder what would have happened if he had tripped.  
If he had fallen down those stairs. 

I wonder if the dark, gaping doorway of the gym would have watched.  
I wonder if I would have watched.  
Would I have been happy? 

I slowly force myself to my knees, stretching my arm to my bed.  
It hurts.  
I switch arms, my left hand now reaching to pull myself onto my bed, but when I put pressure onto my foot to push myself up, my thighs buckle, and I sit back hard. 

I give in to my body’s demands, and simply pull my comforter off my bed, spreading it over me on the floor. 

I lie on my back at first; but it hurts, so I switch to my side, left cheek rubbing uncomfortably against the carpet.  
I curl myself in, almost the same position I was in not five minutes ago, but now my hands are cradled to my chest, pressed against the soft cotton of my shirt, absorbing the warmth coming through from my skin. 

I am cold. 

I am tired. 

I will shower tomorrow, I think.  
Before school.  
I showered after practice earlier, to wash the sweat from my skin.  
But I will shower tomorrow to wash off the blood. 

I think of practice tomorrow, how my bones will ache, how I will push myself, as I always do, and how Coach will be angry at me for falling behind. 

But it will be alright. She is used to it by now; she expects me to fall behind. 

It is easier that way. 

I drift off to sleep, thoughts of my team circling in my mind. 

 

But this time, I do not smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm... don't think I mentioned this before, but the chapters will be switching perspective as the story goes along. The two main narrators will be Kuroko & Kagami, though
> 
>  
> 
> and this chapter is from Kagami's perspective

I grab another basketball, dribbling as I dodge imaginary enemies, before doing a fancy spinning-thingy (and almost tripping over my own feet in the process) and dunking one-handedly into the basket. 

I land on my heels, knees buckling slightly in an attempt to take strain from my ankles.   
Something Coach recommended (re: ordered) I do. 

I glance around to see if she noticed, but instead my gaze lands on a familiar patch of blue hair at my right elbow. 

“Yaagh!” 

I jump (very manly-like, mind you), and glare down at my shadow, who closes his eyes and sighs. 

“Kagami-kun, I’ve been here the whole time.” 

I run a hand through my hair, lifting it out of my eyes, and shuffle my feet as I continue to glare down at the little bastard.   
His eyes flick down to observe my sneakers, and I stop my movements self-consciously. 

“You need to balance your weight more on your left side, Kagami-kun.” He remarks tonelessly. 

I furrow my brows at him, forgetting about my glaring for a moment. 

“Huh?” I reply eloquently. 

His eyes swivel up to meet mine, before he walks past me to grab a ball. He moves to stand in front of me again, lowering his body by bending his knees somewhat before dribbling the ball and making to pass me to my left. I lurch forward to block him, and he quickly steps to the left (his left, my right). I shift my balance, breaking my momentum to block him from going to my right, and a cocky smile forms on my face.   
That is, before he swivels his left foot in a complete three-sixty, stepping down hard on his right foot, immediately to my left, and stepping right past my hesitating body. I take note of him stiffening slightly, before he turns back to me and tosses the ball into my hands lightly. 

“Like that.” He gazes at me blankly. 

Dammit, so he was actually here long enough to notice my little slip-up with my fancy footwork earlier, and wasn’t just pretending, so as to get out of trouble with the Coach.   
Not that it worked. 

“Kurokooooo,” I hear her howl across the room, finally noticing the small boy at my side.   
She marches over, whistle bobbing up and down against her chest. 

“What took you so long?” she asks sweetly.   
I cast a horrified look down at the mass of blue hair at my side. 

Ahh, shit. He’s in trouble now. 

Kuroko bends over into a bow. 

“I’m sorry Coach; I took a shower this morning, and it took longer than I expected.” 

“Why the hell did you need to take a shower this morning? You took one after practice yesterday, and you’re just gonna take one after practice today, right?” I ask, confused. 

Coach sighs, interrupting whatever Kuroko was about to say. 

“I will forgive it this time, Kuroko. But don’t let it happen again! I understand that boys have needs sometimes, so next time, get up earlier, so you can… take care of yourself, without disrupting practice.” 

Apparently satisfied with her words, she nods once, before turning away and placing her whistle back in between her lips; no doubt going off to harass Izumi-san, who was elbowing Kiyoshi in the ribs, both of them guffawing loudly over god-knows-what. 

I stare after her for a moment before looking down at my shadow.   
He’s squinting after the Coach, looking like he wants to say something to object, but not wanting her attention on him again. 

“…what does she think I…” he mutters under his breath, before seeming to decide he doesn’t really want an answer, so he blinks very slowly, then goes to start his warm up. 

I shrug, turn back around, and continue with my own drills. 

~  
After I finish up, I glance around for my shadow, and catch a glimpse of pale blue disappearing into the locker room. 

I toss the basketball I was using over my shoulder, hearing it bounce a few times as I walk after Kuroko. 

Warm air envelopes me as I step through the doorway, and I stop at my locker to grab some spare clothes before heading in to the showers. Steam has fogged up the mirrors lined up before the sinks, and the air feels heavy with heat. 

“Kagami-kun.” 

Kuroko’s voice sounds from the shower directly to my left. 

“Yeah?” 

“Could you hand me my towel, please?” 

I look around, and spot the fluffy white material resting on the edge of a sink.   
I pick it up, and with my free hand knock on the wall beside his stall. 

I hear the water turn off, before a milky white arm reaches out between the wall and the shower curtain.   
I hand him the towel, and the curtain rustles slightly as he pulls the towel to him, just enough for me to catch a glimpse of a dark purple spot on his ribcage. 

I furrow my brows. 

“Oi, Kuroko…” my hand reaches to open the curtain, fingers nudging the wet material to the side, before Kuroko’s hand settles lightly over my own. 

 

“Are you trying to see me naked, Kagami-kun?” 

 

I snatch my hand back, a furious blush settling over my cheeks. 

“Wha--- I---! that’s--- NO.” I add a small, “Tch.” as an after thought. 

I can practically hear my shadow’s smile. 

“Bastard…” I grumble as I walk away towards an empty stall. 

I drop my towel and clothes onto a wooden bench lining the wall, and quickly get undressed, before stepping into the shower.   
I turn the water on, goosebumps forming over my body as the cold spray hits my chest. I shuffle around until my back is to the shower head, staring at the tile floor as the water gets progressively warmer. 

I hear Kuroko’s feet padding on the floor outside my curtain; I can hear the rustling of fabric as he dresses.   
I wonder which clothing he’s putting on now. 

Boxers? 

Pants? 

He’s a slow dresser.   
I’ve noticed this before. 

I imagine him, standing a few feet away, creamy, unblemished skin meeting the thin, silky cloth of his boxers. 

He wasn’t wrong; I would like to see him naked. 

I turn back around, grabbing my bar of soap, rubbing it between my hands until bubbles start spilling down my wrists and dripping down to fall to the floor along with the water droplets, before both are washed down the drain.   
I scrub at my body with the soap, making sure to get behind my ears, like Tatsuya always reminded me to. 

I can’t hear any sounds from outside now; Kuroko must have left, quietly. 

He does everything quietly.   
I wonder where he learnt to do that, to be so quiet. 

My mind wanders, jumping hazily from thought to thought as I finish with my shower, hand reaching forward to shut off the warm water. 

I shiver as I step out, grabbing my towel and wrapping it around me hurriedly. 

Hyuuga and Kiyoshi walk in, and I grab my clothes before making a beeline towards the archway leading to the lockers, hoping to leave without having to speak with either of them. Hyuuga isn’t so bad, but Kiyoshi could easily fill a couple hours just talking about his cats, ramen, and the latest Deadpool comic release. And frankly, I’d rather not freeze my balls off waiting for him to stop mooning over the newest edition to his household, a “delightful little fur ball named Glitch”. 

(Note: yes, I am ashamed I somehow retained this knowledge, when my brain would really do better remembering when my latest history report is due… Not that I’ve actually written any of it.) 

Hyuuga glares at me, and I risk a glance to Kiyoshi's face, but as soon as I see the sunny smile alighting on his face, I dash for the archway, feet skidding slightly on the wet floor. 

Luckily, I am rewarded when I pass them without any utterings from the famous Iron Heart. 

I move to my locker, taking off my towel and draping it over the top of the open locker door, before pulling on my boxers and jeans. 

I hear a loud thump from the shower area, and then choked laughter. Deciding it would be better not to investigate, I finish getting dressed, then make my great escape.   
To be honest, I really feel no pressing need to figure out if the rumors about Kiyoshi and Hyuuga are true; I like to keep a strict ‘what-I-don’t-know-can’t-hurt-me’ mindset.   
And trying to think about what positions would even be possible... with their height differences... would definitely hurt my brain. 

I manage to sneak out of the gym before Coach spots me.   
She seems to get particular pleasure out of sticking me on clean-up duty. 

“Wanna head to Maji Burgers?” I hit send and wait for a response. 

“Yeah.” 

The reply is almost immediate, and I feel an instinctive smile forming on my lips. 

I shove my phone in my back pocket, and begin the walk to our favorite after-practice hang out. 

The air is cooling now, the light dimming as the sun goes down. 

I wonder if Kuroko will finally let me come over to his house tonight.   
I’ve asked multiple times, (at least eight), but he refuses each time. 

I step on some leaves, their crackling breaking into my thoughts. 

I look ahead of me, seeing the road I’ll turn left on to get to Maji Burgers. 

Somehow, I know he’s already there, sitting and sipping a vanilla shake. 

Waiting for me. 

 

And for some reason, that makes me happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review, reviews make me smile :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first off: God bless you guys, Dale & TheGuestGirl. Seriously. I've been sick the past two weeks, (which I know is a lame excuse, but it's truuuee) and I've been feeling like crap and coughing up blood and stuff, which is pretty freaky (although having Morticia Addams' voice quoting in my head while doing so is a small comfort), so your guys' comments were literally my only motivation. So yeah, God bless, live eternally, may all your OTP's come true. So this chapter is all for you guys, (along with all you dahlings who kudos'd (?) ). Enjoy :)

I step out of my pants, kicking them to the side, and stand in front of my bathroom mirror, wearing nothing but boxers. 

My eyes shift from bruise to bruise, ranging from my shoulders to my knees; not that I can see that far down in the little mirror above the sink, which only gives a view from head to hips. 

But I don’t need to see them.  
I can feel them with every move I make. 

It’s been four days since the last ‘disagreement’.  
The bruises are healing, turning an ugly yellow/brown shade, peppering my skin like little calendulas. 

Almost as if my muscles are sick of their treatment, and are trying to pay me back by making me look like an aspen in the autumn. 

I turn away from my reflection, and spin the handle on the bathtub, until cold water comes blasting through the pipes and onto my hand.  
I keep my fingers directly under the spigot as the water gradually heats up, until steam rises and forms billowing clouds in the otherwise still air.  
I pull the tab above the spigot, and the showerhead makes a rather alarming ‘vrrrVRRshhrRRr’ sound as it sputters on, water streaming down to splatter against the bath mat, before swishing in little eddies down the drain. 

I step into the tub, a sharp pang of shock running through my body as my skin is hit with the scorching water.  
I lift my limbs mechanically, reaching for the soap and scrubbing at my dripping hair as I feel my skin heating up, burning.  
I rinse my hair, and look at my hands. 

They are a bright, angry red. 

I tilt my face down, staring at the water dripping down on either side of me, soap suds lightly popping as they swirl down the drain.  
I turn off the water. 

I am clean now. 

I let out a huff of laughter. 

Or at least… as clean as I can be. 

I shake my head, splattering the walls with glistening droplets.  
I hear a door slam downstairs; he has left. 

I dry off quickly, grab my clothes and slip them on, before leaving the warm bathroom and making my way down the stairs and into the living room.  
I glance around, and spot my mother leaning up against the kitchen counter, head in her hands. 

I walk over to stand in front of her.  
I gaze down at her light colored hair, so like mine in shade and thickness.  
She lowers her hands and raises her head, and looks at me. 

Her eyes are tired. 

So, so tired. 

 

But I feel nothing. 

No sorrow, or shame, or sympathy, when I gaze at her. 

I remember when my father first became violent.  
He started by slapping her around.  
Then he shifted to full out hitting.  
After that he tried kicking. 

But he never touched me. 

She would cry out, and after he was gone, she would just lay there on the floor, tears streaming down her face. 

I couldn’t bear it; seeing the father I loved abuse the woman who raised me, and seeing the pain in her eyes.  
And the sick, twisted pleasure in his. 

Then once, when I came home from middle school to find him hitting her in the stomach, over and over and over, I couldn't bear it any longer. 

I grabbed his arm, and attempted to force him away from her. 

That was the first time he hit me. 

I cried out, and was flung against the wall from the impact, but it worked; he walked off, confused and I think… a bit… afraid.  
He had never imagined I would step in; never imagined he would have to hurt his son, who had done nothing wrong; unlike his wife, whom he managed to justify hurting almost everyday. 

I remember the look on her face then, the tear stains on her cheeks glimmering in the dim lighting.  
I thought that the look she gave me was one of relief, and of gratitude. 

And in a way, it was a type of relief. 

I didn’t realize until I overheard a conversation between my father and mother just what kind, though. 

The exact words I can’t recall; but the wheedling tone in my mother’s voice as she reminded my father how stubborn I was, how disobedient… and how my cries sounded when in pain. 

I had listened at the door, a mere seventh grader, as she used whatever means she could think of to convince my father to turn his abuse to me. 

To leave her be. 

It worked, I guess; after that, the majority of his anger was directed towards me via his hard, unforgiving limbs. 

At first I thought I understood; she had dealt with his abuse for months, and she needed a break.  
But as the weeks of me taking his blows turned into months, and I saw her turn away so many times, the realization that she sold me out hit me hard.  
And that made something inside me turn cold. 

The air I tried to breathe turned frigid, and it felt as though my lungs were filled with sand, their weight dragging me down and scratching the very inside of me, marking me with little invisible paper cuts.  
And that is when it struck me. 

Invisible. 

So that is what I became. 

 

I turn away now, leave her standing by the sink, grabbing my coat from the rack as I step out the door.  
It is getting dark. 

‘I really shouldn’t be going out at this hour’, I reflect to myself. 

I check my phone, which I almost always leave in my right-hand coat pocket.  
3 new messages. 

‘Tell Kagami-kun that his standard of clean gym floors needs work, and that he’ll take time to fix those standards tomorrow after practice.’ —Riko. 

I sigh; of course, she makes me deal with his temper tantrum when he finds out.  
Honestly, sometimes I think I spoke too soon when volunteering to be Kagami-kun’s shadow. 

..... 

Yeah right. 

I focus my attention back to my phone, but just as I’m about to read them, I get an incoming text. 

‘The laundry needs done tonight.’ —mom. 

I stare at the words glowing brightly on the screen, before shoving the device back into my pocket without replying. 

I turn around, and make my way home again.  
I’m not entirely sure where I was going in the first place, so it’s not like it really matters.  
I was probably heading for one of the street basketball courts.  
The one off Park Avenue, maybe.  
That’s the one I would always go to with Aomine, back in our middle school years, when we were feeling in the mood to blow off some steam. 

Sometimes Kise would follow us, and peep from one of the various trees surrounding the area until we told him to come play with us.  
He would then bound over, ecstatic to play with his mentor and his idol. 

I feel my lips shift into a slight smile.  
I had very good friends. 

I still do, really.  
I have Kagami-kun, who’s my best friend; Kiyoshi-senpai and Hyuuga-senpai, Izumi-senpai and Koganei-senpai, and even Riko… I suppose… 

I climb the stone steps to my front door.  
My brows furrow when I realize I can’t see the doorknob.  
I look up, to the wall lights on either side of my door; they are turned off. 

I feel dread settle in my stomach, enveloping the area around my belly button. M

y mother always leaves the light on when he is away. 

I open the door, and a gust of warm air envelopes me as I step inside.  
I hang my coat, slowly. 

I am stalling. 

I pad quietly into the living room.  
He is sitting on the couch, slouching back against the cushions with closed eyes.  
My mother is no where in sight.  
She probably disappeared into their bedroom immediately after texting me. 

‘Her replacement was on his way; why bother to linger?’ I think. 

But I am not bitter. 

At this point, I am used to it. 

Resigned. 

 

I look at my father for a moment.  
His light brown hair, like mine, gets mussed easily; right now, it looks like he went to hell and back. 

Who knows; with the circles he runs with in his downtime, he might have. 

I look to the stairs leading to the second floor, across the room.  
Maybe he is out of it enough, he won’t even notice me.  
I walk forward, footsteps silent as can be, not even a whisper to indicate my presence in the room.  
I make it to the stairs, and look over my shoulder. 

His eyes are closed still.  
But his breathing has shifted. 

He is awake. 

I bolt up the stairs.  
If I can make it into my room, I can lock the door.  
He will stand outside, cursing me, maybe yell a little. B  
ut he will eventually give up, and make his way downstairs, to his own room.  
Or maybe just pass out on the sofa; depends on how lazy he is feeling. 

As I race up the stairs, I hear the sofa creak.  
Next, a hand latches onto my ankle.  
He is faster than I am.  
I almost fall, but my arm flails about until I manage to latch onto the rail going up the stairs.  
I try and jerk my foot away from him, but his grip is too strong.  
Panic crawls up my throat.  
I kick him in the face. 

It works. 

He swears, and releases his grip on me. 

My steps are unsteady as I climb the rest of the way up the stairs.  
I am shaken. Frightened. 

I stumble on the landing. 

This gives him the opportunity to catch up to me. 

He grabs me around my middle right before I face-plant onto the carpet; his grip is rough.  
He wrestles me into the room to our right.  
The gym.  
He tosses me onto the hard floor. 

I feel a sharp jolt of pain in my shoulder, and hear a soft ‘crunch’. 

He kicks me in the sternum, and I lose my ability to breathe.  
He shoves me onto my back, and stars swim before my eyes as my vision fades around the edges.  
He straddles my hips, and rains blow after blow onto my chest and sides. 

I still cannot breathe. 

I attempt to raise my arms to protect myself, but the excruciating pain coursing through my right arm stops my movements. 

My ears are ringing. 

My left arm goes up to protect my ribcage, and his fist rams into my forearm.  
He jerks his arm back with a growl, and grabs both my arms, forcing them above my head. 

I cry out as my right arm goes numb.  
I feel the blood drain from my face, and my vision blurs. 

As I loose consciousness, I vaguely take note of the doorbell ringing.

 

~ * ~

 

I check my phone again.  
Kuroko still hasn’t replied to my text.  
Rub hands together to get friction.  
It doesn’t work. 

I’m still freezing my balls off. 

I check it once more, just for good measure. 

‘Last message: forget what u said earlier. I’m heading over right now ;)’ 

I look at the dark door in front of me.  
My fingers grope around for the doorbell, and I press it again, hear the distant ringing coming from inside.  
I look down at the stone steps beneath me, and scuff my feet as I shuffle around.  
The door in front of me opens. 

“Aww, geez, Kuroko, took you long enough. It’s fuckin’ freezing out h—” my mouth snaps shut as I take in the 6’2, dark-haired, scruffy-faced man in front of me. 

“Not…Kuroko.” I mumble, eyes wide. 

The man extends his hand with a small smile. 

“Kuroko Makorov. And you are?” 

“Kagami Taiga.” 

I take his hand in my own.  
His grip is firm but gentle, and a little… scratchy?  
I look down at the hand gripping my own; his knuckles are bleeding. 

“Shit ma-, uh, that’s, crap man… what happened?” 

I return my hand to my side and gesture to his own.  
He glances down, stiffening slightly as he turns his hands over, examining the scraped and peeling skin. 

I watch him quietly for a moment, before volunteering, “I’ve got some bandages in my bag… if you want some help getting cleaned up, I mean.” 

He looks up from his hands, and regards me for a moment. Then he nods.  
“Yes… that would be nice, thank you.” 

He opens the door, and holds it as I walk in.  
He offers to take my coat, and I accept, and look down at my sneakers as he hangs it on a hook in the wall.  
Next he walks me into what I’m guessing is the living room; a sofa and coffee table are set up in front of a T.V., with a recliner to the side, planted in such a way that it is half-tilted to the sofa, and half-tilted to the T.V. 

He gestures for me to take a seat, and I sit stiffly on the edge of the sofa as he disappears into what appears to be a darkened kitchen.  
I look around.  
Paintings grace the cream-colored walls, pretty pictures, of a sun setting behind a barn, a city skyline, ect.  
On the wooden coffee table is a tissue box, an abandoned watch, some books on flexography… wait, da fuck? What the living hell is flexography?  
I glance towards the shadowed kitchen area in confusion. 

He comes back, and sits beside me on the sofa.  
In his hands are some disinfectant wipes and some yellow/green salve.  
(As I look at the questionable color, I can’t help but wonder if salves have expiration dates.) 

He puts the items down, and I take his left hand, before gently blotting at the cracked knuckles. 

I clear my throat uncomfortably. 

“So how’d this happen, anyhow?” 

He raises his eyes from my administrations, and studies my face, seemingly searching for a hint of… something? 

“I got in a bar fight not too long ago. In fact, I just walked in the door not five minutes before you showed up.”  
His eyes are still watching my face, almost as if gauging my reaction to this news. 

I am surprised. 

“Huh. Wouldn’t think most people would want to start something with… well, a guy like you.” 

Smooth, Taiga, real nice. Way to impress Kuroko’s dad with your great social skills. 

He cracks a half-smile (that’s a good sign, right?!), and I finish taping his hands with the bandages from my backpack, then switch to his other hand. 

“So… where’s Kuroko?” I ask, to break the silence that has once again descended upon us. (Damn, I hate silence.) 

He shrugs off-handedly, as if his teenage son being gone late at night is something he is used to. 

“Not sure… said something to his mother about going and visiting his friend Aomine, I think. But that was a couple hours ago… who knows what he could be up to now?” 

 

I focus my attention whole-heartedly onto his hands again, not responding to his question. 

Hell if I know what they could be up to. 

I didn’t even think they were friends again, really. 

I mean, sure, the jackass helped my shadow with his shooting, but that was more of an apology for being such a jerk. 

 

Wasn’t it? 

 

I can’t help but imagine them, alone, training, getting all hot and sweaty together. 

It makes me feel slightly sick. 

I wrap up his hand, and he returns it to his own lap. 

“Thank you. That was truly a kind thing to do, helping an old man like me.”  
He stands up and smiles down at me.  
I blush. 

“N-no, it was no problem. Anything for a relative of Kuroko’s.” 

He chuckles.  
I stand up, and run a hand through my hair. 

“Well then… it was nice to meet you, Mr. Kuroko.” 

Man, that feels weird… there are two Kuroko’s?  
Hell, there are THREE Kuroko’s?  
Feels different than when there was just my Kuroko.  
My shadow. 

I hear a slight thump from above, and I glance curiously towards the stairs across the room. 

“Rats?” I ask jokingly. 

He chuckles again, and claps me on the shoulder as he steers me to the hallway to grab my jacket.  
I slip it on, popping the collar up to help ward off the chill from the wind. 

“Be safe.” he says, opening the door.  
His eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles kindly at me, and I can’t help but wonder if Kuroko’s would do that (if only he would smile like that. Like, ever). 

I step outside, breath escaping in a cloud of white, and thank him for letting me see his home, before we say our goodbyes.  
Then I walk down the steps as he closes the door behind me, and I check my phone. 

‘Last message: forget what u said earlier. I’m heading over right now ;)’ 

I frown at the glowing device in my hand, as if it has offended me somehow. 

Idiot. 

I start my walk home, thoughts of Kuroko and Aomine (Kuroko and Aomine together in that man whore’s house, Kuroko and Aomine together and probably alone in that man whore’s house at this goddamn late hour), swirling in my mind. 

I’m pissed. 

Here I was, expecting to finally see his house, to meet his parents, and he was off reliving old times with his light. 

Dammit. 

His OLD light. 

I feel like smacking something. 

Maybe him. 

 

I look across the street, at a bright neon sign proclaiming that ‘Alfonso’s’ has the best drinks in town.  
I look once more at my phone, before burying it deep in my back pocket. 

What the hell. 

And with hope for a new, better feeling to replace the tight sickness in my belly, I make my way across the empty street to ‘Alfonso’s’.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I deeply and humbly apologize for the EXTREMELY late update. And now, excuses:  
> * I was finishing school, so, of course, busy and overworked  
> * Not at all motivated to write, the first month. Then the second month, I was very motivated to write; unfortunately, that motivation was spread across seven other stories, as well. Really, really wasn't motivated to write on this one at all... (I literally just wrote this last night. So forgive me if I missed mistakes. But do please inform me of them.)  
> * A dog ate my homework  
> * Tis the Season, a.k.a FAMILY. Lawd help me.

I know I am in trouble. 

Spots swim across my vision as I sit up, left arm instinctively reaching across to my right.  
I gently prod my swollen shoulder with my fingertips, biting into my lip as a cry fights its way up my throat. Steady my breathing, and then stand.  
My knees crumble, and I fall. 

Damn. 

I decide to try my hands and knees. 

Nope. 

My arm objects, strongly.  
I sit back, heavily, and fight down the vomit crawling up from my sore stomach.  
Watch droplets of blood mixed with sweat fall to the ground; maybe a few tears, as well.  
I can’t tell. 

I am numb. 

I wait a few moments, and attempt to stand, again.  
My knees are steadier, now. 

I think I can make it. 

I slowly, slowly, make my way out of the gym.  
Out into the hall.  
I think I hear voices, downstairs.  
I don’t know. 

My feet are heavy.  
My legs shaking.  
My head pounding.  
I feel as if I am dying. 

But death wouldn’t hurt this much, I think. 

I open my door, step inside.  
Close it, quietly, behind me.  
Snap the lock into place. 

I am safe. 

I lean against the door, catching my breath.  
It feels so good, to just rest, the back of my head cradled by the door.  
Supported. 

But I know, this is dangerous.  
Past experience has taught me that much. 

I shuffle over to my bed.  
My feet are so heavy. 

I am so tired. 

I reach underneath my pillow, pull out my cell phone.  
Hold it in my hand for a moment.  
Debate whether to keep standing, or to sit.  
If I stand, I may collapse. If I sit, though, I may not be able to stand back up.  
Not because of my physical injuries, though those are certainly taken into account. 

But because I may loose the will. 

I choose to remain standing. 

I dial a number, the only one who can help me right now.  
The only one I can trust with this. 

I place the phone against my ear.  
It is cool, refreshing; I wonder, as the phone is ringing, if I will want to pull it away once I am done. 

“Eehh.” A voice on the other end intones. 

“Murasakibara?” My voice is raspy, throat dry. I think I taste blood, as well. 

“Ehhh, Kuro-chin.” His voice holds a question. 

I cough, chest tightening. Aching. I definitely taste blood. 

“Murasakibara… I fell down the stairs,” cough, “again.” 

I hear his breathing on the other line.  
Calm, controlled.  
Soothing. 

“You should be more careful… Kuro-chin.” 

He hangs up.  
I smile, just a bit.  
My bottom lip cracks.  
I lick them, a weak attempt to stop the bleeding. 

I drop my phone, hear the cushioned ‘thump’ as it lands.  
I want to follow.  
My body listens, for once, and falls next to the cool metal. 

My head bangs painfully against the bedside table on the way down.  
Spots dance in my vision; I sleep.  
~*~  
My body feels heavy.  
I hear a light droning sound, some squeaking. It is unpleasant.  
I frown. 

“Ehhh. You shouldn’t wear that expression, Kuro-chin. Your face will get stuck like that.” 

I roll my head to my left.  
Murasakibara is sitting next to me, hands out in front of him. We are in a car, I am realizing.  
His hands loosely holding onto the steering wheel.  
Proper 9’o clock – 3’o clock position, I note.  
Good. 

“My face is already stuck like this. It always has been.” My tongue feels thick. I didn’t even know that was possible. 

Murasakibara looks at me, from the corner of his eye.  
Smiling a little. 

“Ehh-,” 

“Road.” I interrupt, before he can finish. 

He frowns now, but refocuses on the dimly lit pavement ahead.  
Not many cars are out, this late.  
I glance down at the dashboard. 

1:43 A.M. 

Hmm.  
I was out longer than I had thought. 

It is silent, now.  
Just the low drone of the engine and the squeak of the tires as they turn.  
I usually like silence.  
I respect the stillness of it.  
But right now, it does not seem like my silence.  
Not like the still silence. 

This silence is loud. 

“Thank you, Murasakibara.” I murmur, quietly; to break this loud silence. 

I think I didn't say his name right; my tongue is still heavy.  
He sighs, a weary sound.  
Like a child exasperated at his parents for making him go to bed. 

Solemn, in a way children shouldn’t be. 

He pulls to a stop, shifts into park.  
I look ahead.  
A large building, brightly lit, even at this hour.  
My stomach curdles. 

Murasakibara gets out, shuts his door. I watch him walk around the front, stop at my door.  
He opens it, and then stands there, staring at me.  
For someone looking on, they might think he was waiting for me to step out.  
But I know him better than that, and he knows me. 

He is waiting to see if I will get out, if I am willing. 

I flick my eyes, from his to the building, then back to his.  
Dark purple, waiting.  
Patient; calm.  
Even for this. 

And surprisingly, I am willing. 

I step out, carefully, trying not to jostle my right arm.  
He takes my left arm, wraps it around his waist, wraps his arm around my waist.  
Supporting me.  
We walk to the door. 

I recognize the name above the door, vaguely. It is a hospital, a few cities over.  
My eyes burn a bit at that realization.  
I wasn’t knocked out on my floor all that missing time; I was with him, in his car. 

Driving to a hospital, hours away, because he knew me.  
He knew I wouldn't want to go to a nearby hospital; eyes everywhere, where anyone could recognize me.  
He knew me. 

The linoleum is bright as I stare down at it, as we walk down the hall, as he deposits me in a hard plastic chair, as he goes to the front desk to check in.  
I try looking up; but that is worse, the harsh white light reflecting off of all the glass. Windows, doors, peoples’ prescription eyeglasses.  
I feel rather dizzy.  
I look back down at the floor.  
My shoes make a nice contrast against the bright yellow/white. They are grungy. Dirty in some places, damp in others, little droplets of blood spattered across one of them. The shoelaces are untied on the other. 

Murasakibara comes back, sits next to me.  
I look up at him.  
He is focused on something, across the room. I follow his gaze.  
My breath catches in my throat. 

The boy, from Touou. Apologetic Mushroom. His eyes are on us, wide, almost disbelieving. Eyebrows drawn together with concern.  
His ankle is wrapped, crutches beside him.  
His eyes meet mine, then sweep over my body. He brings his eyes up to my face again.  
His expression aghast.  
Be that from my injuries, or his own, I am not sure. 

He opens his mouth. Stares, contemplative, for a moment. Closes it. Then stands. 

My heart thumps, once, painfully. My chest is sore. 

He shuffles for a moment, backs of his legs bumping into the blue plastic seat behind him. His face turns resolute. It’s not a bad look; it’d be nice if he wore it on the court more often.  
He takes one step forward, falters.  
Two steps, falters. 

I watch, in passive amusement.  
Murasakibara chuckles lowly. 

One step again. 

“Kuroko Tetsuya.” A voice over the intercom breaks through my focus. It is loud. My head pangs. 

You’d think, for serving the ill and physically broken, that they would put more effort into making it less harsh for those awaiting their turn to be healed.  
The lights, the noise, the coldness of it all.  
It is unpleasant. 

Murasakibara stands, reaches a hand down to me.  
I take it, stand.  
He looks at me; questioning, in his own way. But still calm.  
I shake my head. Make my way up to the desk. 

Follow the nurse waiting for me, patient and gentle as he takes my left arm. He must see that something is wrong with my right. He leads me into a room, small, clean.  
The lights seem less harsh.  
Tranquil, almost. 

He sits me down on the bed occupying the middle of the room. Introduces himself as Toshiro, says Dr. Nagisa will be with me in a moment.  
Asks if I would like a glass of water.  
I say yes. 

I tongue experimentally at my swollen bottom lip as he fills the thin paper cup. The bleeding has stopped, at least.  
He hands it to me. 

And now, we wait.  
~*~  
Dislocated shoulder, right. 

Fractured ulna, left. 

Bruising and tissue damage to the sternum. 

Severe bruising and tissue damage along ribs four-ten on left, seven-ten on right. 

I repeat this list over in my mind.  
Walk out of the room.  
My ribs are bandaged; the cloth scratchy against my sensitive skin.  
I am aching.  
I am tired.  
My mind seems fuzzy, thick.  
Unreliable.  
It makes me uncomfortable. 

For years, I have trained myself.  
Protected myself against the emotional wreckage that comes with each bruise. With each sudden outburst of his anger.  
But I am so, so tired.  
I need to get back, to my room.  
I can lock the door.  
I will be safe. 

I step out, into the waiting room.  
The lights burn my eyes for a moment, adjusting. 

Murasakibara is slouched in a chair, hair spilling to one side of his face, swooping to cover his eyes.  
Mouth slightly parted.  
The barest bit of drool escaping from between his open lips. 

Despite the situation, I smile slightly. 

Well. 

Smile with my eyes, at least. 

My mind is clearing now, slowly.  
The numbness vanishing, being replaced with calm control. 

It is a relief. 

I never recognize the numbness to be so bad, until it is gone. 

Murasakibara sits up; stretches his limbs, a silent yawn escaping his mouth. 

“Ehhh… S’good now, Kuroko-kun?” 

I nod. “Yeah.” 

He stands, shakes his hair back into place. 

I hear the door to the waiting room open; which, on its own, wouldn't be something I’d generally notice.  
When followed by a very familiar voice, however… then, I take note.  
My spine stiffens. 

“Oi, Ryo. You couldn't have called Wakamatsu? Or someone else, less busy than me?” 

“S-sorry, Aomine. But, I… um, th-that’s…” Apologetic Mushroom’s voice drifts off as he notices Aomine-kun’s gaze survey the room lazily. 

His gaze settles on Murasakibara almost immediately. 

“Eh? Atsushi, what are--,” his gaze lands on me. 

His mouth closes, slowly.  
Dark eyes, which had widened a bit when focused on Murasakibara, now narrow.  
My eyes drift to his throat as he swallows, once.  
I flick them back up to meet his again.  
His stance is relaxed, hands buried in his pockets, as he transfers his gaze from me, to Murasakibara.  
Swallows again.  
Looks back at me. 

“A-A-Aomine--,” Apologetic Mushroom cuts himself off as Aomine-kun spares one last look up and down my body, turns on his heel, and saunters back out of the waiting room.  
Apologetic Mushroom stands for a moment, a look I don’t recognize etched across his face. He glances back at Murasakibara and me, before following in his teammates footsteps.  
The door closes softly behind them. 

I feel frozen; but my mind is racing.  
I go to the front desk, and sign out.  
Give them my home address to bill me; I do not have any cash.  
I turn back around, to face Murasakibara. 

“Mine-chin seemed strange, Kuro-chin.” 

I nod. 

I think back, to the last time we spoke.  
After he trained me to shoot. 

He said the next time we met, it would be as enemies. 

But, this. 

This… does not feel right. 

Aomine-kun isn’t the quiet anger type.  
He is loud.  
Fierce.  
And incautiously, incredibly protective of his friends; those of us from Teiko, at least. 

I take a breath.  
My heart is beating, fast.  
Let it out.  
Much too fast. 

We walk, out the door of the waiting room.  
Down the hall.  
Out the front door of the hospital. 

The air is cold. 

My nose starts burning.  
Cheeks tingling as the crisp air hits flows against them. 

 

I hear a soft grunt from beside me.  
The smack of bodies colliding registers in my ears, and I look to my side.  
Two figures hit the pavement, a dull thump; then the grinding of gravel as they roll. 

The figure on top sits up.  
Draws back his arm, thrust it forward. 

Crunch. 

Bone cracks.  
I wince.  
But I am used to the sound by now; my father, and my beloved sport, have made sure of that. 

Crunch. 

Again, the figure on top punches, hard. 

I recognize that hair, that skin.  
I step forward. 

 

“Aomine-kun.” 

 

He ignores me.  
He moves to hit Murasakibara again, but is stopped by the larger male’s hands grabbing his arm. 

Crunch. 

His left hand, this time.  
Murasakibara’s head snaps to the side with the impact. 

“You BASTARD.” Aomine grinds out, voice low. 

Furious. 

“Aomine-kun.” I say once again, my voice cool. 

His head twitches towards me, just a bit. 

He raises his arm again.  
I can see the dim glint of blood on his knuckles. 

I step forward, a final step.  
With one hand, pull the back of his jacket away from his neck.  
Shove the other down it, cold palm spreading open against feverish flesh.  
Something I used to do, back at Teiko. 

It calms him, slightly.  
Good. 

He sits back on his haunches, his face now illuminated by the streetlamps.  
It is pale.  
Ashen, almost.  
His eyes narrowed, mouth twisted in a harsh grimace. 

I turn my attention to Murasakibara.  
His nose is flowing with blood; one eye appears to be blackening.  
He drops his hands back down, to his sides. 

I look at Aomine-kun’s hands.  
He is clenching and unclenching them, repeatedly, fingers white with blood loss.  
Tendons standing at attention in his arms.  
He finally looks away from Murasakibara, to me. 

Eyes study my face. 

 

“Tetsu.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, PLEASE review


End file.
